Between the Boys
by CSI Clue
Summary: Three points of view: Cuddy, Wilson and House interweave fantasy and comfort. Mature in language and theme.


LISA

I never should have opened my mouth. But it was late; Greg had dominated the bitch session for most of the night and I could see by the swiftly lowering levels of malt in his glass that Jimmy was getting fed up with listening to the Great Doctor House's View of the World as much as I was.

Honestly, Greg's brilliant at what he does, but his utter lack of bedside manner still astounds me. It's as if he's got some grudge about patient contact, a personal phobia that he enjoys flaunting in our faces. I KNOW he can do it—be caring and compassionate that is—but it only pops up once in a while, and under internal cues known only to HIM. So just to derail his latest rant, I give him a pointed stare.

"You know, I'd really rather hear about your sexual fantasies."

Bingo. Greg widens those big blue eyes of his and next to me Jimmy's sitting up a little more now, his slow sweet grin spreading wide. I take another sip of my martini, letting the vermouth sting a little on the way down. We're stuffed in a circular booth in a bar only a few blocks from work, exhausted yet in need of company, and I'm between my boys right now. Greg on my right, Jimmy on my left; close enough to have our personal spaces overlapping like Venn diagrams.

It's nothing new—the three of us have done this before. Sometimes I go out with Jimmy; once in a very great while with Greg, but more often than not it's the three of us, sometimes in good moods, more often in quiet or melancholy ones. Not dates, in any formal sense of the word—just a drink, or a bite to eat with a colleague. I let Jimmy pay when I'm with him—he insists. When it's Greg we split the bill right down to the tip. Works out well, and in both cases the company's not bad.

When it's Jimmy and me, I hear a lot about Julie, (and Debbie for that matter) during dinner. In turn I tell him about my rotten luck with and we laugh a little over it. He keeps threatening to set me up with his cousin. When I eat with Greg he grouses about his team, or hospital politics, or the endless annoyances of his day. I let him roll on and counter the more outrageous comments when I can.

Cheap therapy I suppose, but when Greg finally winds down there is a softness to him that I appreciate, and he's actually pretty charming under the façade of Vicodin and cynicism. He's usually twice as irritating the next day, as if to make up for his lapse, but I let it roll off my back. It's just his way.

My boys. When we're out all together like this, it's an amazing blend. Jimmy is sweet, Greg is tart, and right between them I manage to keep the peace, egging them on, letting them vent, getting in a few zingers myself. They listen to me during these nights out; really listen to me, and I come away from our sessions knowing I won't find anything better than the two of them to keep me on a steady course. They make me feel smart, and needed and . . . attractive.

Because they DO flirt, both of them. Jimmy's stopped himself from making full passes at me, but his gentle flirtatious moves do my ego good. He helps me with my coat, strokes my hand on the table, hugs me goodnight and nuzzles my ear. Just enough sexy little moves to remind me that I'm a woman and he's a man. Just enough to leave us both knowing there could be something very good between us.

Greg's flirting is less direct, but devastating at times. He looks at me with those baby blues, and sometimes he lets the hunger show through. That intense little glimpse of appetite makes me squirm. He tucks his cane under the table and never fails to let the shaft of it rest between my feet in a Freudian show of dominance that amuses me. He looms when he sees me to my car, and although he never hugs me back when I hug him, sometimes I can feel his erection muffled through layers and denial.

Jimmy and Greg—they each want me, a little bit.

And I want them. Theirs are the faces that come to mind when I rub myself to orgasm in the lonely darkness of my bed. I might think of someone else at the beginning, but gradually my thoughts return to my boys: Jimmy's beautiful hands; Greg's fascinating lips. They each have appeal, each have charms that attract me to them. Either would be a good lover, I know that instinctively.

But together . . .

JIMMY

I can see by the gleam in her eyes that Lisa is about to yank Greg's chain, and I surely don't want to miss this, so I sit up a little and watch. It's an easy habit to fall into; just watching them. They're oil and water, cat and dog, fire and ice—although usually Lisa's the ice and Greg the fire. Watching them bicker is good entertainment, actually, because when Lisa gets worked up—

--Well, I do too. A little. Not that I can do anything about it, but still it's a tiny inner thrill I savor. She's beautiful, in her fine-boned intensity. Elegant. And even though we've pretty much always kept things at a hands-off-let's-preserve-the-friendship stage I'd be lying if I didn't admit I've thought of her in a few fantasies.

I happen to know for a fact Greg has too; his confession coming over a bottle of scotch we split a few years back. I'm sure it's an admission he regrets making, but what the hell. He's hoarded enough of my secrets that's it's only fair I get some leverage in kind. Between us we're a catalog of regrets and screw-ups and misdeeds, but neither of us carries the load alone.

And now Lisa's in the club too; a damned nice addition to the mix. Lisa's sharp, and funny, and she can keep Greg on his toes; the show's fun to watch once it gets started.

"My fantasies?" I hear Greg repeat. The tone's full of bluff and insinuation, but under it I can hear the little bleat of surprise. I grin into my glass, waiting to see what nonsense he's going to spout. Probably something about naked cheerleaders—that's usually his first line of thinking.

"Anything but cheerleaders," Lisa warns, and I feel my grin widen. Good girl—get him on the ropes early. Greg gives a mock-sigh and shoots me a look that I'm supposed to respond to. I shrug—he can try his Angelina Jolie line if he wants. Under the table I feel Lisa's lean thigh resting alongside mine, and the sweet warmth is good. I like her thighs.

"Well, I do have this one that involves an up close and personal judging of supermodels," I hear Greg begin, warming to his subject. "Along with tropical oil that needs to be applied in liberal amounts to exposed skin. Nothing like gleaming supermodel thighs to make a man happy to be alive."

"Just you and all those supermodels?" Lisa asks. I love her slightly cynical tone, and I'm imagining the little cyberchips of her brain fetching images and calculating logistics for Greg's fantasy. She's highly analytical when she wants to be, and that's part of her charm too. Good about the details AND the big picture; undoubtedly she has to be in order to do her job.

That's one of those factors that attracts me, to be honest. Lisa's direct. She flirts, she gets flustered at times, but by God she hasn't got a coy bone in her body. No wonder her Internet dates go bust on a regular basis—no computer chat could ever prepare a man for her refreshingly blunt approach face to face.

Call me shallow, but I'm glad she hasn't managed to hook up with anyone yet. I like having her here, with us. I like the way she shoots me an intimately amused glance now, waiting for Greg to respond to her question. Her eyes are smoky blue, and they glow a little in the candlelight.

"Just me. Doctor Wilson can dream up his OWN fantasies," House rolls out loftily. "Besides, he's not into supermodels. They play hell with his guilt."

"Guilt?" I snap, feeling my face flush a little. Trust Greg to get a dig in a tender spot without even trying. So I kept marrying, even when I shouldn't have. Serial commitment, my therapist called it. Looking for Love in All the Blonde faces, Greg called it.

Asshole. I pick up my glass, but Lisa shifts her thigh to rub mine in a comforting way, and instead of downing the rest of my whisky I sip it. Greg continues.

"Me, I'm guilt-free. I can indulge in a multi-layered orgy of personal delight under a tropical sun with young and eager bodies lushly begging for the personal satisfaction only I can provide . . . "

"You'd fry like a slice of bacon on a griddle," I point out, staying mild, but smirking. "All that pale middle-aged skin under blazing rays . . . Melanoma City, Greg. Oil has no PFC you know."

"Jesus, it's a FANTASY!" he growls, "A mental indulgence that doesn't require UV ray protection OR condoms OR HIV tests for that matter! In our own minds we are GODS, Jimmy."

"Or goddesses, " Lisa points out, her voice low and amused. Suddenly I get an image of her, flowers woven into her long flowing hair as she rides in over the ocean waves on a scallop shell: AphroCudd-dite, naked and tempting. Wow. That's enough to make me cough a little over my mouthful of whisky.

GREG

I have no idea what the hell's gotten into these two tonight, but whatever it is, we need to drink it away. I've already had my daily dose of frivolity from Bibbity, Bobbity and Boo this afternoon, and right now the itty bitty frayed nerve endings along my temper and my femur are wearing ever thinner. It's sure as hell not helping that Cuddles is wearing her amused face along with a sweater so low I can damn near see her navel. That part I'm not complaining about—the low cut one anyway— but the smile has me a tad worried.

Since when did she ever want to hear about my fantasies? I've watched her alcohol intake, and it's been nowhere NEAR enough for a question like that. Cuddles has never been the type to encourage the general raunchiness Jimmy and I can create out of thin air. No, she generally listens in for a moment and then either changes the subject, or caps us good, leaving both of us sulking in our beers. Or tequila. Or whatever we're imbibing.

She does NOT bring the smut to the table; no, that's OUR job. Ergo, something's up with Princess Plainsboro, and I intend to find out what it is. At least I didn't spring the one on her about the Astroglide, the latex gloves and Clara Barton in full dominatrix gear. Even Jimmy can't grasp the breathlessness of THAT combination.

To wit: Jimmy is sliding into mildly marinated, and I can see he's getting used to being without his wedding band because he's not fiddling with his fingers at the moment. Cuddles has both elbows on the table and that brings the Golden Globes into play nicely—and distracting as those sweet things might be, I need to keep focused.

Damn it. That smirk in soft rose lipstick knows too much now. Tonight I might as well give it up—I sense a capper coming, even in the fantasy department. The best way to slink out of it is to hit to left field, so I do.

"All right Jimmy Bob, resident Radiation Sheriff of the Table, what's YOUR fantasy, Hmmm? Bimbo A La Carte?" I toss his way as I prop an elbow on the table. This brings my face lower, and damned if I don't have to look over Cuddle's pretty chest to see Jimmy. What a shame.

Jimmy's squirming now, not making eye contact with either of us, and I have a pretty good suspicion why. It's not just that Luscious Lisa is here, although that's probably part of it—it's that he's got a hankering for the slightly unconventional. I know this through careful observation through the years. The odd conversation, the telltale signs here and there: James Evan Wilson might laugh at my Clara Barton daydream, but I'm willing to bet my Official Best Buddy here has had more contact with leather than Cuddles and myself put together.

He blushes and looks down into his drink, but before I can call him for stalling he clears his throat and speaks in a low tone.

"Getting kidnapped and, um, used by a motorcycle babe—happy now?"

I blink, surprised he'd admit THAT much. He must be drinking more than I thought, or just feeling brave tonight. Cuddles gives an approving nod.

"Very hot . . . chains jingling, boots, tight cropped teeshirt—" she croons and all of a sudden I'm fighting a serious surge of interest from Mr. Up. Crap, I do NOT need that at the moment. From the look on Jimmy's face he's got the same damned problem.

"Yes well what can I say—forceful women fascinate me," he mumbles into his whisky. I snort loudly, shifting to give myself a little lap room, as it were.

"Fascinate—is that a code word for whip you with their--?"

"---Shhhh, no dissing someone else's fantasy Greg."

I goggle at Cuddles. "Did you just say 'diss'?"

Now she turns a slightly irritated look my way, and those smoky eyes glitter a little. "Yes, diss. As in slang for dismiss, all right?"

"Well shuckies there, Miz Cuddy, I never did have much book larning," I drawl back. Jimmy's fighting back a laugh now, which is good. The waitress sails by, but none of us are taking another and she disappears again. A little moment of quiet settles in with us and I look at the two of them.

I don't know when it happened, but it was slow, and steady. My social life, which was never huge to begin with, telescoped down into a very narrow field of focus, fueled by the damned infarction, and later Stacy driving away in her Volvo. I ignored calls, and threw away letters and lost touch with everyone.

Everyone but these two.

Jimmy, who takes my barbs and brushes them off, then waits to hear more, and sweet, sweet Cuddles, who sees me exactly for what I was then and am now.

So it boils down to a friend I sure as hell don't deserve, and a woman I can never have. I guess it's true what people say—I AM one sad and sorry fuck.

Might as well make a night of it, so I turn my best leer to She With the Ultrahot Hooters. "So, Doctor Cuddy, what's YOUR sexual fantasy? Talk slow, I want to catch EVERY word."

LISA

I take a breath—this is it, a very make or break moment here. They could end up laughing at me, and even if I joined in . . . but I brought it up, and damn it, I can piss on the wall too. At least I'll have said it, and I can live with myself for that much.

I hope.

I shoot a look to my left, then my right; rapt attention from them both. Jimmy looks genuinely interested, and Greg has a smirk already starting. I wait until he begins to take a sip of his drink, then give a low, breathy sigh.

"Mine is to sleep with both of you—at the same time."

Perfect timing! Greg's choking on a mouthful of scotch burning down the wrong pipe, and Jimmy has sucked in so much air the candle on our table is wavering.

"Jesus Christ! WARN a guy before you spring something like that on us!" House coughs. Jimmy has this adorable flush over his cheekbones, but he's very, very quiet. I look down, working on my demure expression, but I know I'm pretty pink myself right now. Greg is still gurgling a little and I give a little happy hum.

"Oh come on, it's harmless—I just have this warm and happy dream about snuggling up between the two of you."

"Just . . . snuggling?"

It's Jimmy who asks, not Greg—interesting.

"In the beginning, yeah. All safe and cozy under some big blanket in the dark."

"So . . . is this a one-at-a-time thing, or are we all . . . involved?" he continues, and I smile at him. God I love Jimmy's persistence. That's why he's the head of Oncology; he doesn't give up until he has the answers. I prop my chin on my hand and toy with my glass.

"Oh all of us, the first couple of times. Nice slow intense lovemaking. Lots of touching and tongues, powerful climaxes. After that I pair off with each of you while the other one recuperates."

"Oh God," I hear House wheeze, "Yeah, those first ten rounds are a bitch. Who'd have thought you had such a dirty imagination, Cuddy? And bear in mind we'd need a damned big bed—California King at LEAST for that sort of tag team action."

"I know," I sigh, "but since it's a dream that's no more a problem than your tanning oil, right?"

"Riiight," Jimmy reassures me, his eyes twinkling. "Just a mental indulgence—involving the three of us."

"I feel so USED," Greg complains, but I swear I hear a little—fear?—in his voice. Carefully I make it a point to shoot him a more serious look.

"Weren't you the one pointing out it's just a fantasy, Greg? Those never come true anyway, right?" I check my watch, which is one of our signals, and reluctantly Jimmy slides out of the booth to let me get out. I toss down a ten to cover my drink and wriggle into my coat, wanting to slip away now that I've spoken up. I feel embarrassed but a little proud too—and at least they know now.

Jimmy almost says something, but I shake my head, trying to keep my expression soft. There's something about the way Greg's looking at me that's bringing me close to tears, and I'm not going to let him know it, so I lean over the table and pat his bristly cheek.

"Don't worry, it's only sexual harassment if your job's on the line, right?"

"Snuggling—" he snarls softly. "You devious, devious woman."

And I feel it; almost imperceptibly he pushes his cheek against my hand, seeking the caress. Gently I let my fingers trail away. I turn to Jimmy, hugging him, feeling the response of his body to my words, my proximity.

Sweet.

I walk away from them, tossing a casual "Goodnight, doctors" as I make my way out to the door. My car's visible through the window and I know they'll watch me get in and drive off, linger a little once I'm gone.

I bet it's an interesting conversation I'm leaving behind.

JIMMY

Wow.

Just—wow.

Talk about a bombshell of amazing proportions—not only did I have NO idea I was a featured player in a fantasy of Lisa's, I didn't know it would be a ménage a trois to boot! I settle into the booth again, needing a moment to let my erection die down, but it might be a while.

Still stunned. Flattered. Wishing it was myself, Lisa and say—Cameron, but still, not my fantasy I suppose so I'll have to settle for the split with Greg. God, the three of us in a bed, entangled, giving in to urges . . .

"Yo! Ground Control to Major WILSON! Get your mind off the launch pad in your pants for a moment here!" comes Greg's snarl and I stare a little stupidly at him. He's gulping his drink now, and I wince, knowing how that burns.

"Slow down, you'll fry your esophagus at that rate." I tell him. He shrugs.

"What are you, a doctor? Oh, wait, yeah you are," he sourly comments, slamming the glass down lightly on the table. I wait, sensing more is coming.

I don't wait long.

"She did that on purpose. Sat there between us and just, just BAITED us. Women are devious, Jimmy. And Cuddles is the queen of them all."

"Cuddles?" I question lightly. I don't care how outraged Greg's getting; Lisa was probably more honest about her fantasy than we were with ours. I mean, yeah I HAVE entertained thoughts of being cuffed and dragged off by a motorcycle babe, but what I didn't mention is that I've mentally cast that role a few times. Once in a while my motorcycle goddess is Ann Margaret. Occasionally she's Traci Lords. MOST of the time though, I fantasize that it's—

"—Not like I have a PROBLEM with more than two players on the field as it were, but I wasn't planning on you being ONE of them."

I sigh, letting go of my daydream for a moment and try to focus on Greg.

"Right. Give me a break, Greg. We HAVE seen each other naked. Not like either of us are prime hunks here."

He grunts. I pause a moment, and it's odd, because in that little moment of silence I suddenly figure out what really bothering him about Lisa's revelation. The thought makes me feel sympathetic and oddly compassionate, so I choose my next words carefully.

"In fact, she's probably already seen YOU naked."

Greg's glance shoots up at me, sharp and confused, I pick up my drink and swirl the ice in it a little and continue. "Come on, she was your attending for the infarction. Pre-Op. Post-Op, she probably got a good eyeful of your manly charms while you were unconscious."

"Fuck," Comes his little dry moan. "Lying there with filet 'o thigh and enough morphine in my system to be drooling like an idiot. Yes, THERE'S a great image to jerk off to. I'm sure my dick was a gorgeous sight with a catheter shoved up it."

I feel my eyes roll as exasperation floods through, replacing my compassion. "Damn it, Greg—Lisa just admitted she's got a fantasy starring the three of us. Can we concentrate on the positives here?" I grunt a little. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment.

"I'm still trying to process that. Not that she has the fantasy, but why she TOLD us about it."

This irritates me. The man can't accept anything at face value, particularly compliments. It's as if he has some built-in bullshit detector that never shuts off and seeks out motives all the time. I know Greg's accused me of being an excessive optimist, but you'd think the one default any man would have would be when a woman's fantasy is unveiled.

Particularly THIS woman.

"You know what? I don't care. She had the courage to do it and if I ever have to share a woman with you, she'd be the one. Lisa's smart enough to keep you from being an utter asshole, and sexy enough to keep both of us satisfied, Greg. Face it, one weekend with Cuddy and we'd BOTH we walking with a limp."

GREG

Fuck.

I am still trying to get my synapses around the concept of Cuddles wanting a threeway. With US, no less. This SO does not compute—We're talking about the head of Princeton-Plainsboro; a woman who thinks in terms of hourly billing, and intern schedules. I mean yeah, she showcases a hot lil' bod and has a naughty smile I'd love to leave cream on, absolutely, but doing it with Jimmy AND me?

I pick up my drink once more, wondering how it got empty. I can't go yet—Mr. Up is still saluting the fantasy, so I just growl a little.

"Har-de-har-har. After the two of us, I think SHE'D be the one limping, Jimbo—after all, neither of us are currently laying pipe anywhere but our own showers."

Jimmy grunts a little in return, acknowledging without admitting and for a moment we sit there in the semidarkness of the bar. I know he's hard, and he knows I'm hard, but we're not discussing it.

Just one of those guy things.

Finally I sigh and make it a point not to look at him, even though I can see his profile. Jimmy's almost painfully handsome at times; a hell of a lot better looking than I am.

"So, ever HAD a threeway?" I demand. He blinks a little, mouth smiling as he runs a hand through his hair.

"No. That one's not in my repertoire," he looks at me. "How about you?"

I pause, knowing full well I could spin a web of bullshit right now and Jimmy would never know how much was true and how much wasn't, but my heart's not in it. Just remembering Cuddles' cool hand on my burning cheek, the hungry look in her eyes . . .

"No. Hard enough with a one-on-one most of the time."

"Amen to that," Jimmy agrees and I feel a little of the tightness in my chest start to leave. We don't say anything for a couple of minutes, and I find myself wondering if I actually could handle trading off with Jimmy.

He's more athletic, I'll give him that, and probably has a slightly faster recuperation, but I've got the edge with a better capacity for concentration, and staying power. And a slightly bigger schlong.

"Although if it WERE to ever happen—" I offer cautiously now, keeping my voice low. Jimmy tips his head up, looking towards the ceiling and I can't quite tell if he's laughing or exasperated, so I keep talking. "—Then I suppose we COULD make a hell of a tag team."

"Of course. You could pass the condoms out, and I could make up for your shortcomings."

I glare at him, wishing like hell I'D said that; Jimmy looks at me and flashes a smile, his deep-dimpled REAL one this time and right then and there I forgive the smart-ass bastard. He laughs softly, and begins to get up.

"Come on, Greg, it's late. Both of us are going to be a little hung over tomorrow. Go home, masturbate, sleep it off and I'll see you in the morning."

I get up, a little stiff in more ways than one, and brace myself with the cane. The drugs have filed off the edge of pain and I'm not as bad off as I might have been. I get out my wallet and pay—damn it, I'm really off my game if I'm doing THAT.

Jimmy falls into step beside me as we walk out of the bar; the chill is refreshing after the humid closeness inside. I take a deep breath.

"She set us up, you know."

"I know," Jimmy sighs.

"Some day we'll have to return the favor," I add. Jimmy claps my shoulder laughing softly as he turns for his car.

"Fairy tales can come true—" he snorts, and heads off into the darkness while I fish my keys out and think again about Cuddles, naked. About screwing her while Jimmy watches us. About watching Jimmy do the same. It's shockingly sweet, and I'm a little surprised at how arousing the images are, how intimate and powerful.

Crap. I'm not gay. I've never had any attraction to men in a sexual sense; I've seen enough plumbing in my line of work to know I'm firmly, nay, rigidly het. But the thought watching my best friend make love—my two best friends making love—and being a PART of that---

--Because they WANT me there--

Damn it. I pull up my collar; it's going to be a long night.

Part II: In the Cold Grey Wake

LISA

I can't remember the last time I slept for more than four hours. It's been a long haul, longer than any shift I pulled in med school, longer than any stint of duty I've done before. And I have to keep doing it, because there isn't anyone coming to take charge.

Just me. The price of being at the top is that while you get the glory, you also get the hours and the responsibility for it all. I'm working hard to keep the media from picking us to the bones, to keep our credibility up, to rebuild our reputation through these murders. I can see the turn coming, but it's slow, slow slow—like trying to turn the Titanic from the iceberg, although that's not really right because ours has already hit and hit HARD.

Three deaths, seemingly unconnected, but all diagnosed as the same thing. Normally that sort of stat doesn't stand out—I mean we ARE a hospital for God's sake, and a damned big one. But then Greg had to butt in and nose around and I remembered what he'd found out about Pediatrics a year or so ago, so I let him. This time he found more deaths, going back a few months. Seven in fact, all signed off by the same pair of attending nurses, all happening within three weeks of the last.

Not good. From there came the investigation and convictions, the review of hospital security, the new procedures, and of course the ongoing media blitz that's sucked my soul inside out. It's getting better, but I'm still putting in 16 hour days to keep it together. I get into the office at about five, and get out about eleven most nights. Come in on the weekends too, and I remember eating a salad about six hours ago, I think.

But I can't get Ramona Lavelle and Gina Quinone out of my head. The pair of them injecting insulin overdoses into IV lines, into surgery stitches. Choosing to kill patients who annoyed them. And later, patients at random. Like a fucking game.

God I'm so tired.

The weekend is coming and I'm tempted to throw my cell phone in a drawer, curl up in bed and sleep straight through. The only problem is that I'm so tired I CAN'T sleep, so I'm working through files and drinking coffee, hoping that when the crash comes I'm at home. I haven't seen Greg or Jimmy in a week or so, but they've been around—I've found traces here and there.

Jimmy left me a box of nutrition bars and a note about taking care of myself.

Greg left me a 40 oz can of malt liquor.

I stop trying to focus on the billing charts in front of me and rub my temples. For a quick second I indulge once again in my little fantasy, picturing myself being sandwiched between them, warm and cozy and completely without a single responsibility. I wonder if they snore—I suspect Greg does, and it wouldn't complete surprise me if Jimmy did . . .

Can't close my eyes; I don't DARE close my eyes, so I get up and stretch a little, hearing my spine crackle. The damned files sit there on my desk under the high intensity lamp, waiting for me to get back to business. I'm so exhausted now that I'm giving the paperwork ulterior motives. Slowly I pace around my desk; once, twice, three times then settle back into my chair and pick up the files once more, getting back to the business of being the Dean of Medicine.

Yippee.

JIMMY

It's been a hell of a month. Who am I kidding? It's been a hellish TWO months, and while things are finally slowing down, I can't lie and say they're anywhere near normal. The entire moral of the hospital is down, noticeably, and everyone is grimly going through the motions, as if sheer routine will somehow snap us all back to where we were before the murders.

It's hard to watch this place struggle along. Things are getting better every day, but the only factor that really will bring us back is letting time pass. We've had all the coverage we need, all the offered psych services and security measures . . .

We just need time. SHE needs time. I've already spoken to Greg about it, and even though he doesn't say a lot I know he agrees with me, professionally as well as personally. Lisa is taking this harder than any of us and at the rate she's going I'm afraid she's going to have a breakdown of some sort. And that WOULD probably be the downfall of this hospital. She's been the one calm, determined force through this, and it kills me that she's the one bearing the brunt of the media blitz.

She needs to get away, and knowing Lisa, that's not going to happen without an intervention of some sort. Fortunately, I have just the place in mind—quiet, stocked to the gills with amenities, and out of town. Our Dean of Medicine would never go there herself, so I sense some sort of covert plan is needed.

I happen to know an expert in that field, so I pick up my phone and call him.

"Nuns and Nazis Porn Studio, how can I help you?" Greg responds. I sigh.

"What if it had been your mother calling?" I ask him.

"I'd have told her she got the part. There's a walk-on for a leather boy too, in case you're interested in auditioning."

"Thanks I'll pass. I'm thinking of getting out of town this weekend," I tell him lightly. "Atlantic City."

"I see—and you'd like a tour guide to the seamier side of our Vegas of the East?"

"Something like that—I want us to take Cuddy," I murmur, and the sudden silence on the other end of the line tells me I've succeeded in startling him with both the pronoun and the plan. Then Greg comes back strong.

"Doctor Wilson you sick little monkey. I LOVE it. Let's go dose her up with some chloral hydrate I just happen to have with me. I'm calling shotgun."

"No drugs," I snap. The last thing any of us need are criminal charges. "We'll pack her a suitcase and then just offer to take her home tonight—she'll crash before we even hit the highway."

"Sounds good," House mutters in a more serious tone, his voice lower. "Cuddy's about three hours from a meltdown as it is. So—I can handle the packing—"

"WE'LL handle the packing, since all you'd do is bag up a toothbrush and a pair of fishnets," I insist firmly, feeling annoyed now. "Greg, we're NOT going to jump her or make assumptions here. We're taking her out of a stressful environment for REST. If she wants to . . . pursue anything more, then it's entirely up to HER. NO pressure."

I hear House's low whine, and while southern parts of me agree, my brain still retains the authority for this decision.

"Yeah, well you have to sleep sometime, Eagle Scout. So—this means we get to break in at Cuddy's. Cool—I know my way around the place."

"That's what I was afraid of, but yeah. She can't argue too much if we've packed for her already. I'll make reservations and meet you in the parking lot in about half an hour."

"Great. Gives me enough time to hook up with my pusher. Want me to prescribe you some Cialis?" Greg chirps. I grit my teeth.

"Always thoughtful, but no," I mutter; his quietly manic glee is starting to get to me and I can't let him know that. We hang up, and I settle in behind my laptop, pulling up the reservation desk of the Regatta Casino and Spa within a few minutes.

It's pricey, a little out of the way from the main drag of Atlantic City, and comes with more services than any other place I've stayed at—and I only had one of the economy rooms back then. Now, I'm looking at reserving a suite that's going to set me back a chunk of change . . . but Lisa's worth it. Her comfort, that is. I confidently book a three room suite, complete with sauna, Jacuzzi bath and stocked wet bar. The full package: two nights, comps, access to all the goodies . . . at the very least we'll do the town, if not each other.

I squash that thought and curse Greg for encouraging it.

GREG

Oh yeah. We're moving quietly through Cuddy's house and I love the tingle that accompanies on the BEST break-ins. Jimmy's looking nervous, but then again, oncologists and uptight preppies don't often DO home invasions, so I cut him some slack. I pass through the dining room, down the hall and into the Promised Land, trying to remember where I saw her suitcases. Top shelf of the closet, I think.

Yeah, they're there, and I let Jimmy do the honors of fishing them down: a rolling suitcase and one of those square cosmetic cases, both done in tasteful tapestry. SO very Cuddles, all feminine. Jimmy's dropped them on the bed and has them unzipped; they're empty except for little sachets. MORE girly touches.

"Okay, so she needs three outfits, casual, lingerie, sleepwear—"

"Sleepwear?" I whine. My fevered imagination suddenly drapes the gloriously nude image of Cuddles in a plaid flannel granny gown and I shake my head. "Let ME handle that."

Jimmy shoots me a look of grudging reluctance and I can tell he's had the plaid image pop up too. "Fine, but something she can feel comfortable in. Maybe she's got a nightgown on the back of her bathroom door."

I limp off to check, and there are three choices hanging back here: hot red, gauzy black and sheer white. All of them slinky, all of them sending a wake up call to Mr. Up. I lean forward and sniff, basking in the sweet perfume of sleepy Cuddles lingering on them. Damn it, Mr. Up is rarin' now. I snag the red one down and peek around the bathroom doorway towards Jimmy. He's filling the cosmetic bag with stuff from the vanity, choosing earring sets.

Mother of God. I always thought Jimmy was a little anal retentive, but seeing him take the time to accessorize is offending the macho portions of my brain. I clear my throat. Loudly.

He looks up, clueless. "Oh good, you got one."

"Yep. So, while you indulge in your amazing powers of Metro, I'll just get started on the panties, shall I?" I offer, heading towards the dresser. Jimmy drops the last of the makeup and steps over, his scowl finally registering.

"You know, I didn't HAVE to call you, Greg. I could have just whisked Lisa off by myself," Jimmy points out in that quiet tone he uses only when he's really pissed. I hang my head a moment; he's right.

"Okay, yes, I suppose you could have, but--you wouldn't. The guilt would have gotten to you before you'd even hit the turnpike and you know it."

"Shoes," he interrupts, waving to the closet. I head over and peer in, knowing I'll find everything organized in here—after all, this is Cuddles, queen of tidy. There are several nice pairs, including at least two sets of strappy vinyl fuck-me high heels in the far back. Oh baby, what I wouldn't give to see THOSE waving over my shoulders . . .

"Focus, Greg. And NOT those," comes Jimmy's chide. "Yet," he adds, restoring my faith in his sex drive. I grab some low-heeled black pumps and sandals, handing them over my shoulder. Jimmy takes them but he doesn't move as he stares into the depths of Cuddle's wardrobe with me.

"Am I seeing what I think I'm seeing?" he murmurs. I look off to the left side of the closet, and there, under a dry cleaning bag I see the item he's looking at.

Jeans. And not just jeans, but leather ones. Gleaming black leather jeans. Low slung jeans. Leather pants that bring to mind a topless Cuddy sauntering around in them as they cling to her delicious ass and slender thighs . . . Mr. Up is definitely saluting the fantasy, especially when the damned SHOES are part of it too.

I don't DARE look at Jimmy, but I hear him, breathing hard, a little whimper in his throat.

"Oh God---" he breathes. I inhale deeply and reach for the bag.

"We're taking those. We HAVE to."

"We have to," he agrees, sounding a little dazed.

We meet up again in my office about an hour later, and even though Jimmy doesn't say anything I know damned well he's been practicing a little self-pollution too. After Cuddy's closet and panties drawer we both NEEDED some quick release and taking the edge off was absolutely essential for sanity.

Jimmy looks guilty; I wave that away dismissively and check my watch. "Time to get going. Your car?"

"My car," he agrees. "I've driven the way before."

"Let's get this road trip started then."

LISA

I hang up on Alonzo, feeling a fresh surge of hate right now. Apparently my car has a flat, which means I have to either go out and change it, or sweet-talk some one else into changing it. I have Triple A, but it's a hassle to get them to come out to a parking garage. I yawn. Maybe a cab; I'll deal with the damned car tomorrow. I pick up the phone to call the main desk just as Jimmy opens my door and smiles at me.

"Heading home?" he asks. I give a shrug, and he takes a moment to come in and step behind me. His hands go to my shoulders and oooohhhhhh GODDDDDD, the rubbing is perfect! Big hands kneading at the knots there; I'm about to go boneless now and I KNOW I groan a little. He laughs, "Tense."

"Not anymore," I admit, letting my eyes close a moment under the heavenly sensations. Slow steady pressure loosening the muscles, rubbing JUST right . . . I could cry with how good it feels. Then he stops, the rat.

"Lisa, why don't you let me drive you?" Jimmy murmurs in a low voice. There's something in his tone that doesn't sound exactly right, but I'm too tired to worry about it. I look up at him over my shoulder.

"Your timing's perfect—Parking security tells me I've got a flat and I was thinking of calling a cab." Is it my imagination, or does Jimmy look guilty? God I'm tired.

"Okay then. Let's round up Greg and we can get going," he pulls my chair out for me. I grab my purse and coat, lock up the office and walk with Jimmy down the hall to Greg's. It's quiet this time of night, and I'm feeling another yawn coming on.

Greg meets us at his office door, his backpack over his shoulder. "Hey. What's SHE doing here? I thought we weren't letting girls into our He-Man Commuter Club," he cracks. I roll my eyes; Greg's pretty predictable sometimes.

"Seems she's got a flat tire," Jimmy murmurs in that odd voice again. I walk on between them, concentrating on staying awake.

"You don't say? Wow, that's a good reason for getting a ride from Wilson," House announces in a sanctimonious tone. I shrug and trudge on. Out the doors, across the driveways, into the elevator and up to the second floor. I lean a little on Greg, who laughs softly.

"If I fall asleep, just wake me when we get to my place," I warn them both. "Okay?"

"You trust us not to ravish you while you're out?" Greg asks as the elevator opens at the second level of the garage. I pull away from him and link an arm through Jimmy's.

"Sleep first--I'd like to be awake for the latter part." It's weak, but it's all I can come up with at the moment. Next to me, Jimmy laughs and unlocks his car. I hesitate. House clears his throat.

"I need the front. Hate to be rude, but it's the only one that accommodates the legs."

I nod and climb into the back, settling against the velour. Jimmy's car smells good, and it's free of clutter, unlike mine. I fasten the belt while they get in, and gradually we pull away from Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital.

I don't miss it.

Don't get me wrong. I love my hospital. I love my job. But on this Friday night after a long week in a series of long weeks, I'm perfectly happy to close my eyes in the sweet darkness of this back seat and let it all drift away from me. Up front I hear Jimmy and Greg talking about sports, and under it, Jimmy has some CD on, jazz I think.

I drift off.

When I finally open my eyes it's because Jimmy's tugging my hands and making me sit up a bit. I jerk awake, blinking, trying to wake up completely.

We're NOT in front of my house. I look around at the parking garage, wondering if why we came back to the hospital. Jimmy looks a little worried as I climb out. "Why did we come back?"

"We're not back. We're . . . in Atlantic City, Lisa."

Now I hear it in his voice, and my throat feels thick and choked up. Concern. I've heard Jimmy use that tone with patients. I stare at him. "What the HELL do you mean, Atlantic City?"

"Greg and I brought you here because you need a break. You've been pushing yourself extremely hard, and if you don't do something to unstress yourself you're a good candidate for a whole series of problems," he reasons with me. "So, we thought we'd get you out of town for the weekend."

"With the two of you," I manage, feeling myself go red. Jimmy nods, and for a long minute I stare at him. "Where's Greg?" I finally ask.

JIMMY

"Up in the suite, checking out all the pay-per-view channels probably," I admit to Lisa, who looks sleepy and a little scared. I clear my throat. "Three rooms, some nice amenities—you'll be able to go to sleep right away since we're checked in."

She pulls her purse strap up to her shoulder and draws in a breath; I bite my lip. "Lisa, listen—this isn't about . . . what you told us, okay? It's just that after everything that's happened at the hospital, Greg and I knew you needed some serious down time, and you'd probably never take it if we didn't sort of . . ."

"—Kidnap me?" she snorts. Right then and there I relax. THIS is the Cuddy I know and love. She shoots me that wonderfully familiar exasperated look and I flush a little, nodding.

"I know you too well to try and talk you into it. Sometimes a slightly more drastic measure is called for," I point out. She doesn't argue; instead she waves a hand and we fall in step, heading for the elevator. It's gotten cooler, and the scent of salt water is in the night air.

"What about--?"

"--We packed for you," I tell her, not daring to look at her expression, but out of the corner of my eye I can see Lisa's elegant shoulders stiffen at that little outrage.

"I'm going to kill House."

"Maybe you should just change your locks and find a better hiding place for your spare key," I suggest.

The Dean of Medicine very maturely sticks her tongue out at me as we enter the lobby of the Regatta.

I usher her to the bank of elevators, and it's fun to see that despite her attempts at being annoyed, Lisa's actually a little impressed.

"Suites are at the top. We have the Windjammer," I murmur, holding the door for her. The car shoots up, and Lisa sways against me; I slip an arm around her to help both of us keep our balance and for a few sweet moments the feel of her against me is wonderful. God, the thought of sleeping with her, even platonically—

Before that notion leads any further, the car stops and reluctantly we pull apart, stepping out into a short horseshoe hallway with only five doors along it. Each has a plaque: Yacht, Windjammer, Catamaran, Sloop and Schooner.

I unlock the door of the Windjammer and hold it open, letting Lisa sail by me into the plush and opulent living room. She gives a happy sigh, and even I have to admit it's a gorgeous place. Sunken living room; huge vaulted wood-beamed ceiling; big windows overlooking the Atlantic, fireplace with cheery blaze going---and Greg blissed out in the state of the art recliner. He barely turns his head as we walk in.

"Dibs forever," he moans, holding up the remote and hitting the Shiatsu button. Lisa laughs and walks by him towards the window. Outside and far, far down below is the dark water with the thin line of whitecaps rising up from the waveline. It looks cold and remote, but beautiful too, and I love watching at Lisa's profile while she looks out. Then she turns and shoots me a soft little smile that makes something inside me flare up.

"It's beautiful, Jimmy. Just . . . beautiful."

"Thanks. Your suitcases are still in the living room—I wanted you to be able to choose your bed—ah--ROOM, that is."

Great Freudian slip on my part; across the living room Greg is snickering, but I ignore him and wander to the cases, ready to carry them to wherever m'lady asks.

Cuddy wanders from one room to another, considering. Two are standard bedrooms with queen sized beds and fairly nice bathrooms, and one is--well, the master, with a king-sized bed and the sauna in it. She looks at that one, then turns in the doorway and crosses her arms, her gaze moving from me to Greg and back again.

"You KNOW this is insane," she announces to us, those sharp blue-grey eyes framed by thick dark lashes. "The Dean of Medicine checking into a hotel room with the Chief of Oncology and the Chief of Diagnostics? The publicity ALONE could sink all THREE of our careers!"

"Technically only ONE of us checked in," Greg argues, and I wait for his counter line of reasoning; if anyone can debate Lisa and win, it's him. "We're in a resort city, where the news of the hospital killings is already forgotten if it ever even made a ripple. Besides, you're here to rest, which means you're not going to be cavorting around anyway. Get. Some. Sleep."

His tone is soft but compelling, and I'm moved at how much he actually cares. I think we're all a little startled. Lisa slumps a bit against the doorframe. I carry the bags over, brushing past her.

Then Lisa speaks again, softly.

"Fine. Then I'm not sleeping alone. Get in here."

GREG

I'm taking the left side of the bed. I sort of have to; the only way I can safely get in and out is by bracing my right and moving my left leg first. The infarction screwed up my coordination and balance, and even though I've learned how to compensate, it's not always easy. Especially in a new bed.

I'm nervous, but I expected that. Fortunately this joint has a good mattress, sheets with a really high thread count, and enough pillows to arm an entire sorority. My cane hook fits on the nightstand just right, and I slide in, not thrilled at how cold the sheets are, even through boxers and a tee-shirt.

Fortunately there's a heater close by, and I look over at her. Cuddles has the sheets and blanket jacked up to her chin and stares back at me.

"Give me some covers or I'm going to take them by force," I announce firmly. This does NOT have the desired effect; she laughs and lets go, rolling to her stomach. Her hair looks gorgeous in the low lamplight. Jimmy's still in the bathroom brushing his teeth, so I settle in and try to relax. The tv's on, and some in-house program about how to win at craps is playing. I stretch out a little, sighing. Cuddles scoots over and I feel her hip almost against mine now. Warm. Nice.

Jimmy flicks off the light in the bathroom and wanders out self-consciously. He's got blue pajamas on, with his monogram on the damned breast pocket. Gah! I expect a pen or two in it as well.

"You. Packed. Pajamas." I know my tone's a little sharp; Jimmy looks down, sighing.

"I get cold." He turns off the tv.

"Well for God's sake get under the covers, and don't let the air in—" Cuddles snaps. Jimmy jumps like a good former husband that he is and scoots in; once again we all fumble and settle down, trying not to touch each other but still have some grip on the blankets. I turn out the light and it's dark now.

"Oh God, someone's got icy feet!" Cuddles groans. I tug and roll towards her, pretty sure the toes in question aren't mine. Jimmy gives a sigh.

"That would be me."

"Yeah, well, I'd have a doctor check that out—poor circulation's indicative of lots of terrible things," I point out helpfully. "Raynaud's for one. ED for another."

"I don't have EITHER of those!" Jimmy snaps, but Cuddles is snerking, so I slide an arm around her waist. She makes this great little 'eep' noise and what do you know? Her butt's up against my lap.

"Hell-o," I groan a little. She looks over her shoulder at me, and gives a disapproving glance that is having NO effect in getting me to back off.

"Weren't you the one telling me to go to sleep?" Cuddles demands. I roll my eyes and prop my head up, resting it on my free palm.

"So sleep—I'm good with furtive frottage you know."

"Greg—" Comes the voice of reason from the other side of King Island here. Between us, Cuddles laughs again.

"My hero—"

"Shhh, settle down. YOU'RE the one who wanted to snuggle, so close your eyes, Lisa," I hear Jimmy croon, and for a moment we're all a little tense and awkward, but just a little more shifting and this is good.

Like, really good. I'm up against Cuddles, and I know she's got her head on Jimmy's shoulder. Feet are entwining now, and that feels damned nice too. It's been a long time since I've had this kind of comfort. Mr. Up's interested, sure, but I'm not about to press his luck at the moment. Good enough that Luscious Lisa smells terrific, and I have a pretty nice lock around her waist as the long comfortable minutes go by.

I slide my hand up to cop a feel—I AM in the neighborhood—but I'm blocked by Jimmy, gripping my wrist and pushing it away. Not meanly, just—firmly.

"Let her sleep—" he growls a little. This startles me enough to back off a tiny bit.

"Yeah? Well how do I know you're not groping her yourself, Jimbo?" I whisper back.

"Because she's out, for one thing. I don't molest unconscious women, Doctor Feelgood."

I feel Cuddles smother a giggle, and I tighten my grip on her waist, burying my own chuckle against her satiny shoulder. Jimmy gives a put-upon sigh since he heard the two of us.

"Both of you, sleep—" He orders us, "Or I'll send you to separate beds."

We shut up. We sleep.

(_This is as much of this story as I can post here, given the mature nature of this theme. For the rest of it, please visit my site at Cincoflex dot net and look for the House fiction section. Thanks.)_


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